The Other Side of Nowhere
an old white woman,
cold in June,
heavy-coated and scarfed,
plods South down windy Logan Street
in Brooklyn this day the ninth
I might or might not
wonder what she's thinking.
a forty-ish thin black man,
descendant of slaves,
carrying heavy cloth bundle,
tacks North on Logan Street
through Eternity dragging like an anchor
his heavy chain of consciousness.
I wonder if he's also thinking
how we lost this election too.
Kitty the Cat who belongs to no one--
the black-and-white former feral that hated me when I lived here before--
but who has found a way into my rooms to escape a bullying, adolescent dog,
and likes me now that I feed her too much,
(I actually stole her away from my archenemy in the next rooms)
leaps into the open screened bay window and gazes
at the ephemeral passing traffic, an illusion that is never her nowhere;
and she couldn't care less whether Bernie wins or Hitler rules.